


Going Dark

by ReichenbachToTheFuture



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Fall Finale, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReichenbachToTheFuture/pseuds/ReichenbachToTheFuture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's nothing wrong with you." After the events of The Decembrist, Lizzie and Red step into the unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"There's nothing wrong with you."

She guessed it served her right that at first, she felt that familiar jolt in the middle of her chest. That sudden feeling that he was lying to her, he had to be. How could there be nothing wrong with her? Her entire life was a lie and she let it happen. That man she'd married, that fake teacher with those fake glasses, had lied from the very beginning. She was too blind to see it, and too cowardly to kill him for it, even with a thousand chances. Because she loved him, the taste of it bitter and unrelenting.

And on top of it all, the whole time she had Tom in chains, she was too scared to tell - who? Her _daddy?_ The whole thing was pathetic. Reddington was the one who'd opened the box in the first place, upending the contents right in front of her and he still wouldn't tell her why. He was toying with her even now, dangling who the hell he is to her just out of reach and binding her to him all at once. He knew she'd need to know. Reddington was a puppet master, his fingers near weighed down with strings.

But then he was everywhere and all around, his lips pressing against her forehead - soft, she never would have thought - and his big palm brushed against her wet cheek. She had cried like a faucet someone turned on and abandoned, spilling over at the sides. Powerless, just like he said. The worst part was realizing just how long she'd felt it, she just hadn't let herself give it a name.

Then, again and again, his mouth against her face.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said again, his voice raw and real. That pulsing feeling in her gut loosened, her eyes slid shut. She was tired, and he was holding her. It had been so long, and longer still since it had felt like it gave her what she needed. Tom's arms around her had felt more and more like a trap as her suspicions grew, and he was the man she'd once chosen to trust.

But this, she felt. Rising and falling with every breath, a soft swaying motion that always brought her back to center. Arms and hands and a chance to hide her face. Whatever it meant, whoever they were, this moment was true. A comfort in the face of a fearful unknown. Berlin was dead. Fitch was dead. Tom was gone, Reddington had taken care of him. She didn't ask how. Now, anything was possible.

His arms tightened around her as she brought her own hands up to press against his coat. They began to rock back and forth, each shifting their weight lightly from one foot to the other in a slow, easy rhythm. She let out a breath against his shoulder, letting the heat of it warm her cheek. He hummed low against her hair for just a second.

"What happens now?" She almost didn't want to ask, her words were mumbled. She didn't want to see this thing shatter. Once they were off this piece of shit boat, they would step out into a new game, one nobody knew how to play. Nobody but Red.

"Sleep." He smoothed her hair, once. "Somewhere safe. We'll have to leave this fine place of yours to Mr. Kaplan's attention." Reddington kept up their rocking anyway. Finally, he drew back to hold her shoulders and look her square in the eye. "Hear me now, Lizzie. File this first among the facts you know about yourself. About me." He set his jaw, tilted his head forward just an inch closer to hers. The whites of his eyes impossibly bright. "You are utterly irreplaceable."

 

 

Dembe always drove in silence, and she had never been more grateful for it. Her hands and feet felt so, so heavy. She stared up at the fine cloth ceiling of the town car. Her head had landed with a thump against the headrest as soon as she'd sat down and she couldn't be bothered to move after that.

All of her leads -- Berlin, Fitch, Tom -- all of them, taken from her at once. And Tom never did give in about Reddington. After all the things he said to get out of those chains, after all his desperate confessions, there was always the one thing he never breathed a word about. What had that man done to buy silence like that? Strings, he's got so many damn strings.

Reddington, for his part, looked out the window at the city he already knew inside and out. He was still, but he thrummed with a dark energy she couldn't define. She wasn't sure if he could himself. She knew she should be paying attention to where they were going, but it hardly mattered now. He'd tell her what she needed to know when she needed to know it, save for the one thing she wanted to know the most. That was the only thing she could count on. Besides, she doubted they'd be staying in one place long.

After a while, she tilted her head to see that the city had fallen away, fading into tall grass and great open space. Then corn. Then cows. Horses. More grass. Finally, Dembe turned onto one of the hundred dirt roads that spread across the countless acres. Kept at it that way for a while longer before pulling up to a little farmhouse with a pair of above ground septic tanks at the back.

Dembe drove around the house, pressing a small buzzer on the dashboard. The side of one of the huge green tanks began to roll up into itself, revealing a hidden garage. As the car pulled to a stop inside, she watched shadows fall around them, the space unlit save for the fading daylight from the open door. Now everything's secret all the time, she thought, as if it wasn't before.

Dembe cut the engine and opened his door to exit, their surroundings becoming clear once again under the harsh lights inside the town car. She felt Reddington's eyes on her, so she lifted her head and turned to him.

"I'll be fine. I'm still in this."

"I have no doubt," he said with a flash of a smile. Proud, maybe.

Then she felt the door open beside her, Dembe at the ready, as always, to escort her out. To anyone else, his presence would have been intimidating, fearful. She wondered why she never felt that way. Trust, she supposed, could be found as shockingly as it could be lost.

 

 

The house itself was nearly bare at first glance. Plain beige walls, a gray couch, a black armchair. A coffee table. Closed doors to other rooms. An old-fashioned heater, its thick pipe reaching up to the ceiling, a grate revealing a stove already stacked with wood, with more kindling to spare in a tin bucket on the floor beside.

"Nice digs," she said, rubbing her hands together and looking around as Dembe switched on the lamps and closed the curtains. It would be dark soon anyway.

"I'll admit, it's not the Ritz, but it'll serve." Reddington strode to the heater, kneeling in front of it. He pulled a newspaper from his coat, flipped it open to rip the first few pages out and crumple them on top of the firewood. He reached into his pocket for a lighter and got to work getting the fire going. "It's all been kept quiet so far," he said into the growing flame. "News of Fitch would have made the front page."

Something was off. She wanted to walk toward him. To get closer. But the house, the growing cold, her heavy fucking feet kept her still.

"Berlin, this whole time, he wanted to destroy you. Like you did him." Her gaze dropped to her feet, then up to stare at the back of his head. "Did he?"

Reddington stood and turned back to her. The question should have made him furious, she was being so damn insolent. But as he met her eyes, he saw that hers were wild and wide, searching. Stupidly, she thought back to when she was a little girl, and she'd cried and begged Sam to reassure her that Santa Claus was real and he'd be coming with presents this Christmas, even though times were tough and cash was tight. Sure enough, that year she got a build-your-own radio, and she'd fiddled with the wires and listened to the world for months afterward. The old man had come through.

"He certainly tried," Reddington said, a rare admission of feeling. He took slow steps toward her. "Fitch's death will prove significant. The vultures are circling, and the desert's getting hot. But no, Lizzie. I am by no means destroyed. Berlin is gone from this world and I had the good fortune of ushering him out of it. And in a way, he has given me a gift: he has, impossibly, strengthened my resolve."

He stopped just a foot in front of her. "Berlin wanted to take everything I knew, everything I held dear, and blow it apart," he hissed bitterly, let out a breath. He blinked himself back to her, his hands reaching up to cup her face. "He failed in that regard. Our work continues."

Too soon, he moved his hands away to clap at her shoulders, once, before letting go entirely. "Now, I'm afraid I've been horribly rude. Please, let me give you the tour."

 

 

As it turned out, the rooms were significantly more furnished than the rest of the house. Dembe's equipped with security cameras monitoring the exterior of the property and the front room, Reddington's with a plush king bed and a pair of armchairs, a small table with a crystal decanter of scotch between them.

There was no third room.

She made the realization in the doorway, as she watched him pull a few of the pillows off the bed to drop them to the floor beside it. He turned to a cupboard to retrieve extra blankets, shaking each out efficiently, always efficiently, and laid them out as well.

She finally made her way over to the armchair as he began to loosen his tie. She sat down, hoping she looked composed, and pulled the top off of the decanter. She got out two glasses from the small shelf below the table, poured herself two fingers. Almost hesitated, almost decided to pour his, too, but instead she put the bottle down with a thud he had to hear. And there it was, a lift of his head.

Yes. Let him come do it himself. She tipped her glass to him with a nod before she brought it to her mouth.

He'd slipped the knot free by the time he sat down, pulling the silk from his collar in one smooth motion and draping it over the arm of his chair. He was silent as he poured.

"To Alan Fitch," she said, lifting her glass again to bring it between them.

His voice was rough when he replied. Tired, just like her. "To Alan Fitch."

He gulped, but if it burned, he wouldn't let it show. For a few moments, they stared into their glasses, each looking at their reflections in a shallow, amber pool. Finally, she couldn't stand the silence, but neither could she meet his eyes.

"Ressler covered for me with Cooper. About Tom. Said you were my source."

"Good man."

"And I told Cooper I'd need to follow new leads for the next few days, go dark." She swirled the scotch around in her glass. It smelled like wood on fire. "Whatever you're planning, I'm a part of it now. I can be."

"You've been a part of it for some time already, Lizzie. How many of the world's worst have we done away with together?" Deflection, always deflection.

"I mean you need to start telling me things. Include me. Please." Please. She couldn't ever quite manage to demand things of him, could she? After a beat, he sighed.

"Agreed. As it happens, there are events for which we must prepare. And your participation in these preparations would be invaluable." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But my circle of friends is shrinking, Lizzie. And I'll need to keep you safe as I can from what's coming next. I will include you in everything I can, but understand that there are safeguards in place that I will not break. Not if it means leaving you vulnerable. Your capabilities are unmatched, but the storm that's coming is far bigger than you know."

That was as close to a concession as she could hope for. Closeness was what she was really going for with him, when you got down to it. Close to the action, close to the truth, close to -

"You don't have to, you know. The floor." The words were out before she knew it. She looked at his knee. Not quite backing out.

"I do." He sipped again, drew back to lean into the plush back of the chair.

"It's fine, really." Cool, collected, aloof. Sure. But he barked out a laugh, and she couldn't quite stop the furrowing of her brow. 

"Fine isn't what it would be."

"It's been a long day." She was daring him, she knew. It was so transparent. She lifted her eyes just far enough to look at his collar.

"It has." He tapped his fingers against his glass, turned it slightly in his hand. "But I can't."

His eyes, now. She found his eyes. "So tell me why."

"You know I won't."

"Fine." She stood, marched over to the neatly piled bedding on the floor. Picked up the pillows and tossed them back on the bed with the others. The blankets she gathered up all at once, folding them up together and stuffing the bulky result back in the cupboard.

She tugged off her boots, shrugged off her coat and blazer, unclipped her holster and placed it and her sidearm in a side table drawer. Then slipped under the blankets fully clothed, staring at him, still seated across the room.

"I can't." His voice frayed at the edges.

"Sleep. Just like you said."

He stood as if his joints were creaking, coming to life. He was already in his socks, his hat and coat on the rack, tie on the chair, suspenders on the floor with his shoes. No more excuses, no more dawdling. She wanted him to hurry up, she wanted him to take forever.

The only sound was the rustle of fabric and then there he was, stock still and squarely on his side of the mattress. The lamp by the door was still on. While the light was low enough, it meant there was no darkness to hide inside, for either of them.

She didn't move closer, exactly, there was still an arm's length between them, but she turned on her side to face him. Stared at his temple until he at least turned his head.

"I don't need to know who you are, what all this is." He looked skeptical, but said nothing. "At least not right now, not with everything else. Now, I just need to know that you're here. Do you know what I'm saying?"

He turned his whole body towards her, drawing his knees up so they were almost touching hers. She could feel the contact they weren't quite making, warm and radiant.

"I do. I am. I don't intend on these carrion birds descending, least of all on you. I mean to shield you, Lizzie. From everything I can."

"That's not what I mean." Determination bubbled up in her voice like lava in a volcano. She reached out and took his hand, brought it to hold in both of hers, bridging the space between them. "I need to know that you're here."

His hand twitched in hers, a jolt he couldn't smooth over. His eyes were dancing, indecisive about where to look, searching her face over and over and over. Finally, he nodded.

"Never left," he said, with a lightness neither of them felt. She squeezed his fingers.

"Okay." She closed her eyes, hands loosening around his but never releasing him.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he whispered.

 

When she woke, her head was on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. He had settled onto his back, one arm draped around her shoulders. She barely dared move, but here she was and here they were. Her fingertips fluttered lightly against his shirt, the pad of her index finger tracing a button.

He took in the same slow, even breaths, so she tested the waters. Keeping her palm still, she let her fingers spread out and pull back slowly against him. Let her thumb trace an arc across his chest, stretching further and further outward. He felt solid.

His hand moved at her shoulder, the muscles waking up. She should stop.

"Good morning," he said, his eyes still closed.

"I told you it would be fine." Her whole hand moved now, tracing circles and swirls. She should really, really stop. He hummed.

"This is fine?" Even with his eyes closed, he arched his eyebrow.

"This is something."

"It certainly is that."

She kept up her slow movement, around and around his chest, and down. Until his hand circled her wrist, lightly, stilling her at his stomach. He'd opened his eyes, and what was in them was raw.

"We should get up," he said, stiffening but making no move to rise just yet. His thumb tracing her wrist. "We'll need to be on our way again; we have an errand."

She spread her fingers out against him as he sat up, then stood. Stroked her palm across his waist with purpose.

"And where are we going?" She knew the answer would be vague before she asked. But, she supposed, he'd shown startling honesty in the last eighteen hours, and she'd learned you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"To open up a box."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for leaving such kind notes about my work. Together, we can get through the winter hiatus.

Again, in the car with Dembe at the wheel, heading further and further south. Reddington's hands were by his sides, resting on the seat. Her own fingers itched.

"Cracking open Fitch's safe sounds like something you'd do on your own."

"In another lifetime, I'd never have breathed a word of it to another soul." He turned to her. "But now, it would seem, there are places I can't be seen, things I can't be known to have done. More than ever before. Even those tasks I would very much rather perform myself."

"So I'll be the one to do it." How snugly she'd wrapped herself up in this. How little she cared anymore.

He smiled then, briefly, an emotionless tug of the lips.

"Yes. Measures will be taken to conceal your identity, of course. Understand, your safety is of the utmost importance. If there was another way, we would be taking it."

"I know. I'm in." She flashed a wan smile of her own. "Just so happens I'm with the FBI, I'm not sure if you'd heard." She spread her fingers across the leather seat, catching his little finger with her own. He started, just slightly. It was deliberate, what she was doing, here in the daylight. Fearless.

"The FBI has an unfortunate devotion to rules," he said, voice as gritty as the street below them. Was that trepidation? Even now, after Tom? But then his finger stretched for just a little more contact. "I've never taken well to rules I don't set myself."

She took it in. It sounded like an offer.

"I'm saying I'm ready for it."

His gaze on their fingers, now crossed together. The tightening of his muscles. Her own body thrumming. The roll of wheels on pavement.

"You will be."

 

 

A suburban neighborhood, this time, Florida. Dusk. Nothing spectacular, run of the mill. Streets lined with palm trees. Normal, quaint. They'd even ditched the town car for a station wagon a few towns back, Reddington at the wheel. Dembe had followed closely behind, of course, in a rented car of his own.

"Which one is it?" She asked, as they pulled to a stop on the curb. She scratched lightly at the bangs of the ash blonde wig against her forehead, the nondescript waves of it held together in a low ponytail. It would do, but it was itchy. Reddington cut the engine.

"One block ahead, fourth on the right. Tan house, blue shutters." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small case with two tiny wireless earbuds inside. He held one out to her with an open palm. She took it, grazing his skin, and fit the device in her right ear. He took the other one. 

"Speak only when necessary to describe your surroundings, or if I ask you to. You will be alone, but you are not on your own." His knuckles against her cheek, staying there. His eyes freezing hers in place. "Do exactly as I say."

She felt her eyes darken at his words, the finality in them, the promise. There was no way he didn't see it, too. So she did the only thing she could think to do. Nod.

"Yes," she said, leaning her face imperceptibly into his hand.

She kept her eyes on his as she opened the door, breaking his gaze only when she finally turned to step out onto the street.

_"I'm driving to a coffee shop now, seven blocks away. Dembe will stay within range. Walk slowly, tell me when you see the house."_

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, resisting the urge to say "okay." He had told her when he wanted her to speak, he'd laid down the rules. She would have to wait.

She kept her steps calm, eyes ahead. Finally, blue shutters on a tan house.

"Outside the house, but still on the sidewalk." Her voice low. There was a mailbox, a walkway leading up to a door.

 _"Keys are in the right pocket of your jacket. The gold one is for the front door."_ Sure enough, they were, and before long she was inside, closing and locking the door softly behind her. The house looked well lived-in, sure, but had to have been empty for a while. Surfaces gathering dust, armchairs with doilies on them.

"Inside. There's a staircase in front of me."

 _"Good."_ His praise turned her guts to knots. She heard the faint clinking of a spoon inside a ceramic mug. _"Up you go, stop at the second floor and tell me what you see. Mind your step, those old things tend to creak."_

She tiptoed up and stopped at the top of the stair two floors up.

"Three rooms. One in front of me, two to the right."

_"Anything on the walls in the hallway?"_

"No." A pause, she wanted to say more, but she wasn't sure it was allowed.

 _"Is there something else, Lizzie?"_ Voice hard, but patient. _"Go on."_

"Lighter patches on the walls. Like there were paintings or photos there, but not anymore."

_"Elaborate."_

"Someone may already have been here looking."

 _"Very well surmised,_ " he said thoughtfully. _"It would seem that time is of the essence. Try the room straight ahead. Pay attention to the walls. Report anything out of the ordinary._ "

She turned the doorknob with a gloved hand and entered. It was a boy's room, she could tell immediately, but left untouched for ages. Sparsely decorated, no family photos. A few trophies on the dresser. Wrestling, varsity. No name on the plaque. No year.

The walls, she had to focus. They was next to nothing on them.

"There's a mirror above the dresser. Walls are nearly bare." Her eyes darted around, searching. She had already been here too long. She had to produce, had to find something. "There's a vent. It looks like it was installed later, the paint job around it is a little darker than everything else. The vent's low on the wall, by the foot of the bed."

A pause. A second, an hour. She reached into her pocket for her Swiss Army knife, but didn't make a move for the vent. Not yet.

_"That's it, that's the one. Time to work, tell me when you can see it."_

She sprang, moving to kneel in front of the wall within three steps. Knife out, she pulled out the screwdriver to unscrew each corner of the vent's grate. When she was done, she switched to the blade, slicing through the paint -- of course he'd painted it over -- around the grate as cleanly as she could.

After a minute, it was done, the brushed metal door of the hidden safe revealed.

"Got it."

" _Good girl."_ She nearly faltered at that, nearly spoke. The pride she felt, at his praise, at keeping quiet, it was ridiculous. This was her job, and it was far from her first operation. The feeling persisted all the same.

" _I'll say this once,"_ he continued. " _Eight. Thirty. Forty-four. Open it, retrieve the contents. No peeking. Then clean up and leave. Back door. Speak again only when you're out."_

She entered the code into the keypad, which gave a click that was music to her ears. She gave the handle a yank, grabbing the large bundle of files within and placing them in her open bag. She let out a breath, closed the door and got to work putting the false vent back into place. Her leather gloves were soft and thin, but her movements were still just slightly hindered.

When it was done, she closed her bag and slipped down the stairs. Back door, he'd said. She thought about what the place had looked like when she'd first arrived. She could picture it, straight back through a hallway by the stairs. A little laundry room, and a back door leading to the outside, the sun streaming in like a beacon.

Once she was down and out the door, she locked it behind her before tugging off her gloves to stuff them in her pocket. Even in the fall, leather gloves in St. Petersburg, Florida would look suspicious.

"I'm out. All good."

" _Splendid. Now, walk calmly forward through the backyard. When you hit the sidewalk, turn right. Walk until you see your ride."_

 

 

She did as he said, and before long she'd locked eyes with Dembe, who pulled smoothly up to the curb. She slipped into the back seat, and was surprised and disappointed to realize that she was the only passenger.

"I'm in the car, we're on the move now." She kept her voice neutral, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she missed him.

" _Delighted to hear it. Dembe is taking you to me now, I'm afraid we're moving house again. I'm on my way to meet you, I'm finalizing the preparations as we speak. Now, wasn't that fun back there?"_

She huffed out a near imperceptible laugh. Busting into an abandoned house to steal the world's most secret documents? Reddington sure had a warped idea of a good time.

 _"Come now, Lizzie."_ His voice dripped into her ear. He was going somewhere with this. _"You can tell me. What did you think of my rules?_ "

This was something really bold, now. Her whole self froze, to her very core. It was one thing to stare him down, to sneak around with her hands. All of that could be explained away. But this? Putting it into words?

"Good. Very effective." 

His turn to laugh, now, the sound crashing like a wave.

" _That's wonderful to hear, because they still apply. If I ask you to, you speak. If I don't, you don't. Understood?"_

"Yes." She tried and failed to keep the tremor from her voice. She took a glance at the rear view mirror. Dembe's eyes never left the road.

_"You are so very good at this. I was proud of your work today. Not merely because we got what we came for, though I'll admit, the items you have retrieved are of the utmost importance. You are truly skilled, in countless and ever-expanding ways. You are bound to do great things, my dear, and it's an honor to be a part of it."_

She wanted to say something flippant. It's nothing, just doing what needed to be done, don't worry about it. But his rules locked her in to his praise, forced her to accept it and let it float right in front of her eyes.

" _Can I make a confession?"_

"Tell me." Her voice was small, her breath barely giving life to the words. Her hands bunched and released against the fabric of her jeans.

" _I was sitting at that coffee shop, sipping my americano, telling you exactly what to do,_ guiding _you. And the whole time, I was throbbing for you, Lizzie. I ached with it every second. I should have been focused, I should have been thinking of nothing but that safe. But you were being so, so good. How could I ever hope to focus when you were giving yourself to me?"_

Her body went from ice to fire and back again. The dam was breaking, and she couldn't even see his face, he wouldn't let her see it. Her muscles hummed with energy.

 _"I couldn't help the wandering of my mind once it started,"_ he continued absently, like they were talking about the fucking weather. But there was a breathlessness there he couldn't hide. " _I thought about what else I could ask of you. What you would have done if you could have seen me like that, leaning back in a chair, desperate for you. What you would say if I'd asked you if you wanted to sit on my lap."_ He was breathing heavier now, she could hear the shuddering force of it through the line, and a persistent rustling of fabric. She felt her own face grow hot.

" _What would you say? Answer me now."_

She let herself think of it, of being told to climb up onto the man's thighs, to feel the rush of his blood and the hardness of his flesh right up against her. Giving herself, like he said, to this dangerous man. She thought of everything that could mean.

"Yes," she finally managed. "I'd say yes."

She noticed it, then, the sound of skin on skin, the thump-thump-thumping of a man on the edge. She breathed, listened, suddenly sharply aware of every bump and valley the car drove over. Her body sparked with every sudden movement. The rhythmic sounds on the other end quickened.

" _What I wouldn't do to you, my girl,"_ he grunted, " _to every precious bit - "_

And then there was the sound of everything stopping in its place, taut like the string of a bow. A strangled gasp, then heaving breaths. Her nails dug into her palms.

" _I'll see you soon, Lizzie."_ A click, and he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading, and I hope you enjoy today's chapter. It's a little bit of a cliffhanger, but I hope to get the next one up in a day or so.

It took nearly four hours to cross the Georgia border in their mid-nineties Toyota. They couldn't well stay in Florida, not if somebody else had been snooping around St. Petersburg. She found herself missing Reddington's usual travel accommodations: private planes, helicopters. Even the town car had its charms, whisper-quiet engine and soft leather seats. She thought of how they might feel against her back if she ever dared to stretch out across them. Of how the headrests would cushion her knees if she spread her legs.

The drive felt eternal.

The dim night had draped itself over the open land, lush fields separating sparse properties. He'd gotten them a country house this time. It was nice: two stories, creamy white, with a gray slate roof and a two-car garage. All of the curtains were drawn.

Inside met her with warmth and light. He was nowhere to be seen, but Reddington must have arrived before they did, since the lamps already shone bright in the cozy living room.

Then there he was, coming down the stairs in just his shirt, pants, and socks. There was a small white towel draped over his right shoulder, and a small patch of white foam still lingered by his ear. Freshly shaved, then. He had certainly made himself comfortable.

"Excellent, the gang's all here." He clapped his hands together, tossed the towel aside. "Dembe, why don't you get settled in. Kick back, relax, get our security systems online. Lizzie and I have a few matters to discuss before lights out." He paused, gave Dembe a fond smile. "Get some rest, my friend, it's well deserved."

Dembe really did look tired, though she'd never tell him so. He prided himself so much on being tough, impassive. It was clear even now, as he gave Red a curt nod before walking smoothly down the hall with his duffel bag.

As Dembe's footsteps grew softer, it was just them, standing stock still on opposite ends of the room. She was still in the damn doorway, her duffel on the floor at her feet, the messenger bag on her shoulder weighing her down. Just standing there, scrambling to remember how to play it cool. The silence around them seemed to rust the edges of his bravado, too. He was motionless, looking at her like it hurt to do it, but he never looked away.

Her fingers ghosted along the strap of the bag at her shoulder, down and down until her hand rested over the closed zipper. She looked up to him, smiled calmly even though her insides were upside down.

"Wanna see what I got you?" She unzipped the bag and pulled out the loosely tied stack of files. "A gift for the man who's got everything."

Well, not everything. Not quite, not yet.

He walked toward her like he was being pulled, but stopped a few feet away, far enough so he had to reach out for the files in her hand. He flipped through them quickly, more to confirm their legitimacy than to read their contents. When he spoke, he didn't look up. Why wouldn't he look at her?

"Better than cufflinks, that's for sure."

"I take it whatever's in there is the real deal?"

"Indeed." He still didn't lift his head, he just kept thumbing through page after page. "This information should provide us with several key pieces of an upcoming puzzle, one I'm afraid it's rather imperative that we solve. Tomorrow I'll bring you up to speed on everything you need to know. We'll identify key players, assess the situation, adjusting for this new intelligence."

"And tonight?"

He looked up, finally, like his eyelids weighed a ton.

"There are a few more rooms in this place than the hovel we stayed in last night." His words tumbled out of his mouth like he didn't like the taste of them. His grip tightened around the files, his shoulders squared. "Passably good accommodations, too, for a safe house. You'll be quite comfortable. Take your pick, get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning. Bright and early."

"No." This was not how it was supposed to go. Not at all, not tonight.

"Lizzie." He nearly shook with the effort of maintaining his resolve, the muscles in his jaw tensing and releasing and tensing again. "Earlier today, in the car, what happened was - "

"No," she said again, louder. "Don't give me that speech, you don't get to give me that speech."

"We can't." He sounded like he'd been split apart and left raw.

"We _are_. Don't you see that? We already are. And you don't get to do this with me and then take it back, not when I know you." She took another angry step. "You don't get to reset the board just because you're scared of where the game is going. And you don't get to let me hear you in my ear like that and expect me to pretend to forget about it. You can't fuck around with me like that."

"I know," he said.

She was close to him now, close enough to take Fitch's files out of his hands and put them on the side table by the couch beside them. Close enough to take the collar of his shirt lightly in her shaking hands. Close enough to breathe his breath.

"This is happening, and it's happening for both of us. I've followed all your rules today, and I'll follow a hundred more, you know I will. I'll prove it to you." She smoothed one of her hands out, her whole palm splayed against his chest. She could feel his heart, and the pumping of his blood couldn't lie. "So I'm laying down a rule of my own. You don't shut me out, not anymore, not about this." Her index finger traced a small, nervous circle over his heart. "This isn't a secret you're allowed to keep from me."

He searched her with his eyes as if he was seeing her brand new. His hands balled into fists over and over at his sides. He let out a sigh like his lungs were full to bursting with desperate breaths he didn't dare release until this moment.

Finally, he took her face with shaking hands, fingers digging lightly into her scalp with wafer-thin restraint. He traced her temples with his thumbs, dropped to kiss her forehead and remained there, open-mouthed, breath coming in sharp huffs against her face, a whisper of teeth grazing her skin.

His grip tightened, shifted to her hair, tugged.

"Go upstairs, second door on the left. Draw a bath. Remove your clothes, fold them. Then get in and wait for me."

He released her, then, turned and strode over to the couch like he didn't just pull the pin and leave the grenade at her feet. She stood for a few seconds, following his movements with her eyes. He just sat, crossing his legs, and started flipping through Fitch's files again like she was already gone.

It would seem they were diving into this thing head first.

She turned on her heels, leaving her bags behind, and started to climb.

 

 

It was a claw foot tub, and deep, the elegance of it standing out in the otherwise simple bathroom. Black and white tile, an old-fashioned sink with two faucets, a little wooden side table with shelves for toiletries.

She really could use a nice bath, she thought, even as her whole body thrummed with the anticipation of Red's arrival. His footsteps could come at any time. The only thing she knew for sure is that if she hadn't followed his directions by the time they did, the man would be very disappointed.

She turned on the taps. The sudden sound of rushing water brought her back to the present. Her fingers barely fumbled with the zipper of her jacket as she took it off to fold and place on the counter by the sink. Her boots she kicked off next, then her socks, tucking them inside. Then shirt, then jeans. She'd even folded her bra and underwear, feeling a little ridiculous as she tried to remember how they folded panties at the mall.

By the time she was finished, the bath was full of water just hot enough to give off a light steam in the cool air of the room. Hotter than she'd usually go for, but she figured she could be there a while.

Why did the thought of just waiting around for the guy give her such a thrill? She turned off the taps and gingerly stepped inside.

As she settled against the ceramic rim, she glanced over to the shelf beside the tub. Shampoo, body wash, conditioner, it was all there. She could get started, she had nothing but time. But then the thought came to her, bright as the sun. He didn't tell her to wash herself. He told her to get in and wait and nothing more.

The simplicity of it was a relief after the week she'd had. The hand that had started to reach toward the shelf dropped back into the water with a satisfying plop.

She rested her head against the tub, closed her eyes, and thought of nothing but floating.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, all. I thought this one would write itself. It did not. Hope it's worth the wait.

She didn't know how long she lay alone in the bath before his footsteps came. She felt wonderful, for the first time in a long time. Her mind had miraculously cleared, and the unfamiliar quiet of it was bliss. Did he know that she would feel like this? Did he plan it? She thought again of all the strings Reddington held, but this time they were wrapped around her wrists.

It couldn't have been too much time, the water around her was still hot. As she heard the door open, she found herself too relaxed to care how long he'd left her for, and the only effort her muscles were willing to give was a slow smile.

He was here. He'd come, just like he promised. She remembered Sam, and those Christmas mornings with presents under the tree.

She blinked her eyes open to see Red leaning against the door jamb, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and arms folded across his broad chest. His head rested against the painted wood, eyes darting across to every bit of skin that he could see: face, neck, shoulders, knees. He looked at her like she was miraculous.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was soft, the rumbling of it as soothing as the water surrounding her.

"Better. Good. This is nice, thank you." She didn't miss his small smile at her gratitude, at her obvious understatement.

"You're," he slowly replied, "very welcome." He shoved off the door jamb and walked across the room toward her.

From where she lay, he looked so, so tall, and taller still as he got closer. He reached for the little fold-out stool that was leaning against the shelf, and settled down so he sat behind her head. He splayed his knees wide on either side of the oval tub. She had to turn her head to look up at him, exposing the tops of her breasts.

He reached for the shampoo on the shelf beside them, squeezed some out into his hand. He settled the other at the crown of her head and spread his fingers. She almost felt them trembling.

"We'll have to get your hair wet," he whispered as he ran his thumb over her scalp. "Ready?"

"Yeah, okay." She let her weight drop down against his waiting hand and trusting him to hold her. Giving over to him even as she tried to come off cool, collected. Like someone rebellious who's done this kind of thing before.

He dipped her hair into the water, pausing after her ears went under and muffled all the sound in the room. He held her there for a moment, letting her enjoy the moment of calm weightlessness, then urged her head back up out of the bath.

Red lathered her hair, unhurried, being careful to mind her eyes. The fingers massaging her scalp felt glorious. It seemed like forever since someone helped her shed the world like this. For the longest time, she herself had been the only one she could count on.

Towards the end, she'd have never let Tom do this. It was too intimate an act, to take care of a person. She couldn't trust him with that, or anything, really. And then came the boat, and that room, with that mattress and those chains. That ruined everything for good, but even then she couldn't let Tom go. Not even when he begged her to, over and over for months. Wasn't that love? Keeping someone from running from you?

She washed her thoughts away as he dipped her head back down again, swishing her hair around slowly to rinse every strand. He stroked her head as he brought her back up clean. He leaned down to kiss her bare shoulder.

He must have liked it because he didn't stop, light touches down to the top of her arm, then back up to her neck. Up, and up. His tongue against her earlobe, a kiss there too. He was getting more daring. Was he looking at her, too, under the water?

Knowing she was so exposed, the feel of his lips on her skin, it all sent a shudder through her. He chuckled against her neck, rested his cheek on her shoulder. Making himself comfortable there, as he did everywhere he went.

"You deserve every second of this, Lizzie." She felt him smile. She hoped he could see hers.

He lifted up, moved his hands to her shoulders to nudge her into sitting. She felt the pin-pricking feeling of cool night air against her chest as she lifted up. Next she knew, his big hands were at her back, slick with some nice-smelling soap. Lavender, maybe.

He rubbed surely at her shoulders, and she let herself slump under his touch, trusting him to find each of the endless knots in her muscles. His fingers moved down her back, finally dipping underwater to get down to her tailbone before flattening his hands and pressing a firm line back up to her neck. She dropped her head forward, relishing the feel of it.

His touches lightened, then, rubbing absent circles all over her back, moving the bubbles on her skin from one place to another.

"I've wanted to give you this for some time now," he whispered, dragging his fingers down her arms and back up, guiding her shoulders back to the rim of the tub. "After a while, I'd even let myself think about it, if we'd wrapped up a particularly exciting adventure. I'd picture bathing you afterward, just like this." His hands moved to her collarbone. "Washing away all the dirt, the blood, the grime. Bringing you back to me all clean. Touching you everywhere."

His hands fluttered against the soft skin of her breasts, bubbles spreading there, too. The feather-light touches sent ripples through the soapy water. He brought his face to her ear.

"Tell me this is what you want," he said, serious as a heart attack. She could do him one better.

"Wanna know what I think about?" She arched into his touch, urging him to shuck his restraint. Sure enough, he pressed his hands more firmly into her skin, gently kneading her breasts, his thumbs running over their peaks. "Your voice. But you've figured that out by now, haven't you? I feel it in my bones when you talk to me. Makes me want to do whatever you say just to keep you in my ear." She sat up, then, turned to him and met his eyes inches from hers. "How crazy is that?"

If she was looking to find a port in the storm, she was out of luck. He looked as raw as she felt. His eyes were blown wide. His jaw clenched, then dropped as he let out a breath.

"Tell me," he said again, "that this is what you want." His voice was hard as stone. His hands moved to cup her jaw, firm but kind. In these moments he understood her better than she did herself. She leaned into his touch, smiled because she couldn't help it, she felt too much at once.

"This is what I want," she said, like she didn't know how true it was until the words came out.

"Good, Lizzie, good." His words rolled rough and slow, like a train pulling into a station. He stroked her lower lip with his thumb.

Feeling invincible, she surged up and closed the gap between them.

He kissed like he lived: wild, but with precision. She felt his wet hands dive into her hair, heard the water splash against the tub as she rushed to sit up, twist, and greet his lips. She gripped the front of his shirt, soaking it in patches. He cradled her head as she squirmed for more of him, stayed strong and solid as she leaned into him.

When they parted, panting lightly against each other, he urged her up and stood himself, gently aiding her out of the tub like he didn't mind that his shirt was drenched and rumpled and unbuttoned a quarter of the way. All of his focus was on her. She reveled in it, but couldn't help shivering at the sudden cold of the room, her complete exposure.

"Ssh, I know it's cold, I know," he soothed, kissing her forehead and stroking her arm. "Just... one moment, I have just the thing for it. Back in a flash." He sprang to the little closet, grabbed a thick terry cloth robe and a towel. It would have been funny, to see this proud man rushing around so disheveled, if it wasn't just for her.

She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself and kept her hands at her sides instead. A thrilling voice inside told her he might like it if she stayed still for him. Besides, she was a tough girl, she could handle a little cold.

The darkening of his eyes as he turned back to her, on display and blithely waiting, let her know she was on to something.

He tossed the towel over his shoulder so he could help her into the large robe, easing her arms into the sleeves, wrapping the soft material around her chest and tying the cloth belt in a loose knot around her waist. Then he draped the towel over her hair, gently drying it.

"Warmer?" He asked, pulling the towel down off her head to pool around her shoulders.

"Warmer. Sorry about your shirt."

"I've got more shirts." He stroked her cheek, then dropped his hand to catch her own. He kissed her once, sound and sure, squeezed her hand, and led her down the hall.

 

 

The room was simple, comfortable. He'd laid her out on the broad bed like she was made of glass instead of tough as nails. It was a welcome change, to be fussed over. The past year had been a whirlwind, and she never once got a second of true rest until tonight. Always searching, always looking over her shoulder, always keeping secrets. At least this secret, hers and Red's, she wouldn't be keeping alone.

He lay beside her, propped up on one elbow, tracing the collar of her robe with his free hand. He untied the strip of cloth at her waist and unwrapped her like a gift. The fabric parted under his fingers, and it was all she could do to stop the hitch in her breath.

He smoothed his hand down her body, her neck, the center of her chest, her stomach, and finally came to rest at the soft swell between her thighs.

She spread her legs just so, like a little girl making a snow angel. He hadn't told her to do it, but his fingers tightened against her skin, so he must have appreciated her initiative.

"I've often wondered what you'd sound like if I ever got you like this," he muttered as he dipped two fingers down to slowly circle the top of her folds. "But I'm afraid we'll both have to wait just a short time longer for that. Regrettably, this old house has walls like paper. Do you think you can keep quiet, this time? Nod your head." She did, biting her lip around the sudden urge to moan as his fingers picked up speed.

For a moment, the only sound was the slick slide of his hand on her. She wanted so much more of it, started pitching her hips up, brought her hand up to cup his face.

"Good, wonderful, I knew you'd be good like this," he turned his head to kiss her palm. When his middle finger finally dipped inside her, she held his eyes, opened her mouth, but let out only fractured breath. She hooked one of her legs around his, rocked her hips upward. His thick finger sank deeper, crooking upward before sliding back out to start all over again, and again, and again.

As he pumped her, she pulled his face to hers so their foreheads rested against each other, an anchor point in a sea of movement. She felt a warmth begin to spread deep in the core of her, slowly taking form.

"Oh, yes, that's it. You're doing so well," he gasped against her mouth. "God help me, I want to give you things no man's ever dared to," he growled and thrust his finger deeper, faster. "What do you think, huh, Lizzie? Nod your head, sweetheart." She did, again, rocking her head against his.

A thrill spread through her at the infinite possibility of what he was putting on the table.

His thumb moved to circle her aching clit, like he knew how desperate she was. There was no way he could miss it, really: her breath came in sharp gasps, her wild eyes were latched to his, her teeth dug into her lip to keep herself from crying out. As it turned out, she didn't need words to beg for him.

She could feel him, hard against her thigh through his pants. She was struck for a moment with how unfair it was that he still had his clothes on, those soft slacks, that ruined shirt. She grabbed for it again, then, scrambling for closeness. She could feel the buttons straining against the fabric as she pulled, but she didn't care. He said he had others.

The warmth in the pit of her stomach was growing, glowing, gaining traction within her body. Red was all around her, inside her. Playing with her just like a puppet, she thought dizzily, and almost started to laugh, but then she wasn't laughing, she was coming, the bright heat of it was washing over her like a solar flare, burning her up, and from a million miles away she could hear him, _Yes, Lizzie, that's my girl --_

For a moment, there was nothing but white light and indescribable bliss. She blinked herself back to the present, spread her fingers across his chest as she caught her breath. Slowly, she felt him withdraw his hand, and she shuddered, hypersensitive.

He kissed her, slowly, and unbuttoned his shirt, finally withdrawing to sit up and take it off completely and toss it to the floor. He turned back to her in his undershirt, kissed her forehead and stood to pull back the corner of the thick comforter, helping her under the blankets, the robe hopelessly spread all around her.

"Tucking me in, huh?" She tried to keep her words light, but her voice just sounded so, so small.

He just smiled down at her, mercifully letting her off the hook, and climbed back in beside her. She settled her head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her, laying together like they had back at that farmhouse, miles away. But tonight she let her hand wander down, and he didn't stop her. She felt him, hard and thick through the wool against her hand.

"What about you?" She whispered.

"Tomorrow," he said, stroked her head. "Tonight was for you. Sleep now, Lizzie."

She pressed closer to his side, kept her hand resting where it was, and let his heartbeat lull her down.


End file.
